September 2, 2025
ISLAMABAD – When Iran’s 1979 revolution replaced a Western-leaning monarchy with an Islamic Republic, it did more than transform political institutions — it rewired the nation’s visual culture.
The new state quickly grasped cinema’s power to shape sensibilities and memory, and moved to control it with an elaborate regulatory framework: permits for scripts, filming, post-production, and exhibition; moral codes regulating hair, touch and dress; and a dense network of red lines around politics, sexuality, religion and security services.
At the same time, in neighbouring Pakistan, Gen Ziaul Haq’s ‘Islamisation’ drive was in full swing. Threatened by two formidable women — Begum Nusrat Bhutto and Benazir Bhutto — the country’s third military ruler was tightening restrictions on creative and performing arts, enforcing strict censorship on media and cinema.
But while Pakistan’s film industry gradually decayed under these controls, Iran’s took a different path. Out of heavy restrictions emerged one of the world’s most inventive film cultures.
Iranian cinema remains a mirror to its society and a beacon for world cinema — quietly powerful, endlessly inventive and deeply human. Where Pakistan’s similar political climate in the 1980s stifled cinema into decline, Iran’s restrictions sparked a search for new forms
Iranian directors learned to speak obliquely — embedding political critique within everyday narratives, using children and rural landscapes to reflect adult anxieties, and transforming realism into allegory. Over four decades, they charted the social fractures caused by war, urbanisation, sanctions, inflation, gender segregation and authoritarian governance.
Marjane Satrapi. PHOTO PROVIDED BY DAWN
Paradoxically, repression sharpened their art. Here, I trace that evolution from the 1980s, linking seminal films and filmmakers to political realities and social currents. I argue that a regime intent on silencing dissent inadvertently nurtured a cinema of ellipsis, wit and moral inquiry, in which artists continually reinvented form to keep meaning alive.
After 1979, many pre-revolutionary filmmakers were purged or went into exile. The Cultural Revolution (1980-83) closed universities and saw the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance (Vezarat-i-Farhang va Ershad-i-Eslami, commonly known as Ershad) codify strict censorship.
The new leadership — especially Ayatollah Khomeini — viewed universities and cultural spaces as dangerous breeding grounds for secular, leftist and liberal thought. They sought to “Islamise” these institutions, so they would conform to the values of the new theocratic order. Pakistan’s Gen Zia harboured similar ambitions, though he never fully created a theocracy.
Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis. PHOTO PROVIDED BY DAWN
In the spring of 1980, violent clashes erupted between Islamist and secular student groups. The Iranian government used this as a pretext to “cleanse” campuses of opposition. In June 1980, it launched the “Cultural Revolution” — ordering all universities closed for “restructuring.”
Faculty suspected of secular, Marxist or Western liberal leanings were dismissed. Thousands of students were expelled, imprisoned, or forced into exile. In Pakistan, the scale was smaller but the intent similar: education was retooled as an ideological arm of the state, dissent was suppressed, and an ‘Islamic’ worldview promoted.
When Iranian universities reopened after more than two years, their curricula had been rewritten to emphasise Islamic ideology, Shi’a theology, and loyalty to the regime. Humanities subjects such as sociology, philosophy and literature were reframed within Islamic narratives.
The government-run Fajr Film Festival, launched in the early 1980s, became the principal domestic platform for legitimising films. The war also birthed the official “Sacred Defence” genre — cinema glorifying martyrdom and national unity. However, alongside these propagandist works, filmmakers refined a poetics of minimalism and childhood, allowing them to explore the textures of Iranian life without directly crossing political red lines.
In Iran, Ershad became the ultimate gatekeeper for all media, arts, publishing, film and music. In Pakistan, although information ministers such as Mahmood Azam Farooqi, Gen Shahid Hamid and Raja Zafarul Haq held formal portfolios, real control over media rested with Lt Gen Mujeebur Rehman and Brig Siddique Salik.
Jafar Panahi’s The White Balloon. PHOTO PROVIDED BY DAWN
As federal information secretary, Mujeeb oversaw state broadcasting, censorship policy and the propaganda apparatus — shaping public opinion and coordinating military intelligence with state outlets such as Pakistan Television (PTV) and Radio Pakistan. Both countries institutionalised censorship, embedding it deeply into the machinery of governance.
In Iran, every cultural product — books, newspapers, music albums — required prior approval. Anything deemed “anti-Islamic”, “immoral” or “Western-influenced” could be banned. Romantic contact on screen, unveiled women, or criticism of the regime were strictly prohibited. The rules extended to visual art, album covers and photography, with enforcement by the moral police and judiciary.
The Farabi Cinema Foundation and a new aesthetic
The Iran-Iraq War (1980-88) soon dominated national life in Iran. Within this context, two institutions proved decisive for cinema’s rebirth. The first was the Farabi Cinema Foundation, established in 1983 as the state-backed hub for funding and producing films, and the second was the Fajr Film Festival.
Farabi’s mandate reflected the cultural climate: only films that met the Islamic Republic’s moral and ideological standards would receive support. That meant avoiding sexual content, anti-Islamic themes, or anything politically subversive. Yet Farabi also encouraged artistic and technical quality, hoping Iranian cinema could achieve international recognition.
It championed “Islamic humanism” — narratives infused with moral lessons, respect for family, modesty and the dignity of ordinary life. This dual role as both censor and patron created a paradox: while limiting subject matter, Farabi gave rise to a generation of filmmakers — Abbas Kiarostami, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, Dariush Mehrjui — whose inventive, allegorical works used metaphor, symbolism and stories about children or rural life to slip past censors.
Notable Farabi-backed works of the 1980s include:
The Runner (Davandeh, 1984) — directed by Amir Naderi: A poor orphan boy dreams of a better life. Passed censorship by focusing on a child protagonist and avoiding overt politics.
Where Is the Friend’s House? (Khane-ye doust kojast?, 1987) — directed by Abbas Kiarostami: A simple moral tale of responsibility and empathy, free from objectionable content, yet rich in allegory.
The Cow (Gav, re, 1980s) — directed by Dariush Mehrjui: A villager’s descent into madness becomes a symbolic parable about rural hardship and dignity.
Marriage of the Blessed (Aroosi-ye Khouban, 1989) — directed by Mohsen Makhmalbaf, it revolves around a war veteran’s struggle with post-war life, blending themes of sacrifice with psychological depth.
Samira Makhmalbaf. PHOTO PROVIDED BY DAWN
Bashu, the Little Stranger (Bashu, gharibeh-ye koochak, 1986/89) — Directed by Bahram Beyzaie: Promotes ethnic unity through a family drama about wartime displacement.
The Peddler (Dasteforoush, 1987) — Directed by Mohsen Makhmalbaf: Three moral tales of poverty and desperation, critical, yet framed within Islamic ethics.
Rakhshan Bani-Etemad’s ‘Tales.’ PHOTO PROVIDED BY DAWN
The Farabi model — child protagonists, rural settings, moral parables, symbolic storytelling — became a formula for navigating censorship while delivering layered commentary.
The government-run Fajr Film Festival, launched in the early 1980s, became the principal domestic platform for legitimising films. The war also birthed the official “Sacred Defence” genre — cinema glorifying martyrdom and national unity. However, alongside these propagandist works, filmmakers refined a poetics of minimalism and childhood, allowing them to explore the textures of Iranian life without directly crossing political red lines.
Kiarostami’s Homework (1989), a quasi-documentary set in a primary school, interviews children about assignments and discipline. Their hesitant answers expose a pedagogy of fear — beatings, humiliation, rote learning — without the director ever lecturing. In an environment where overt political critique was perilous, the microcosm of a school revealed the larger authoritarian culture.
By the decade’s end, directors such as Majid Majidi emerged, focusing on poor and working-class families. The seeds of his later Children of Heaven (1997) were already visible: non-professional actors, modest narrative stakes, moral clarity, and an intimate focus on everyday life.
Asghar Farhadi. PHOTO PROVIDED BY DAWN
The 1990s: Global recognition and subtle defiance
The 1990s brought political change. The war was over, reconstruction underway, and President Mohammad Khatami’s reformist administration cautiously expanded cultural space. Iranian cinema began to make waves internationally.
Kiarostami’s Close-Up (1990) blurred documentary and fiction in retelling the true story of a man impersonating director Mohsen Makhmalbaf — a meditation on aspiration, shame and class. His Taste of Cherry (1997), winner of the Palme d’Or, tackled suicide through elliptical conversation, engaging moral and legal taboos without directly confronting the state.
Jafar Panahi, Kiarostami’s protégé, pushed a sharper social critique. The White Balloon (1995) captured Tehran’s street life through a child’s quest for a goldfish; The Mirror (1997) broke the fourth wall as its child actress refused to act, revealing the scripted nature of female behaviour; The Circle (2000) traced women evading police, a pointed critique of gender regulation. The “fourth wall” is a metaphor from theatre that describes the invisible, imaginary wall between the actors and the audience.
Mohsen Makhmalbaf’s political evolution — from revolutionary supporter to critic — produced works such as A Moment of Innocence (1996), which restaged his pre-revolution stabbing of a policeman. The film’s playful reflexivity turned political memory into negotiation rather than dogma.
His daughter, Samira Makhmalbaf, debuted at 17 with The Apple (1998), a quasi-documentary about two girls confined by their parents. Without sermonising, it located patriarchy within a web of poverty, superstition and state neglect.
Rakhshan Bani-Etemad. PHOTO PROVIDED BY DAWN
Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Iranian filmmakers honed a distinctive cinematic language under censorship. Long takes avoided “manipulative” editing that censors distrusted. Non-professional actors lent authenticity and softened the political edge. Rural settings allowed compliance with veil and segregation rules without absurdity. Open endings let viewers form private conclusions, maintaining deniability for filmmakers. What emerged was a cinema that appeared simple but operated on multiple levels — a cultural survival strategy in which ambiguity became both shield and weapon.
21st-century Iranian cinema: The art of resistance and reinvention
One of the defining characteristics of 21st-century Iranian cinema is a noticeable shift in narrative focus. While late 20th-century Iranian films often centered around rural landscapes, child protagonists and allegorical storytelling (seen in the works of Abbas Kiarostami and Majid Majidi), 21st-century narratives have moved toward urban settings, adult relationships and the complexities of social justice, class and gender politics.
Filmmakers now tackle themes such as legal inequality, familial breakdown, economic hardship and political repression more directly. Yet, they still do so with the formal restraint and moral ambiguity that have become synonymous with Iranian cinema.
No discussion of contemporary Iranian cinema is complete without Asghar Farhadi, arguably the most internationally recognised Iranian filmmaker of the 21st century. His films are meticulous psychological dramas, often exploring middle-class dilemmas that spiral into ethical crises.
Farhadi’s signature style involves layered characters, ambiguous morality and narratives that resist simple resolution. His breakthrough came with About Elly (2009), a story of a weekend trip gone awry that unravels deep societal norms and personal facades.
This was followed by A Separation (2011), which won the Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film. In it, a couple’s divorce becomes a lens through which the viewer sees class division, justice and gender inequality in contemporary Iran.
His later work, The Salesman (2016), which won another Oscar, interweaves trauma, pride and social expectations against the backdrop of Arthur Miller’s play, Death of a Salesman. Farhadi’s storytelling avoids political slogans but is profoundly political in its exploration of systemic tension, personal responsibility, and the gray zones of truth.
While Farhadi works within the system, Jafar Panahi is cinema’s dissident. Despite being banned from filmmaking by Iranian authorities since 2010, Panahi has continued to produce daring, self-reflexive works that examine censorship, surveillance and artistic resistance.
His films are exercises in limitation — shot with minimal crew, inside homes or cars, yet rich in subtext and political urgency. This Is Not A Film (2011), co-directed with Mojtaba Mirtahmasb, is a defiant documentary shot in his own apartment, reflecting on creativity under restriction.
Taxi (2015), set entirely in a car he drives around Tehran, won the Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival for its brilliant use of the city’s streets as a space for public dialogue and quiet defiance. No Bears (2022), released despite severe government restrictions, questions the very nature of truth, surveillance and complicity.
Panahi’s works blend fiction and reality, turning the camera into a tool of resistance and self-examination, and confirming his status as one of the most courageous filmmakers of our time.
Beyond Farhadi and Panahi, a new generation of filmmakers has emerged, embracing social realism, genre experimentation, and more overtly critical perspectives. Mohammad Rasoulof is a key figure in this movement. His films confront state violence, institutional hypocrisy and the moral costs of authoritarianism. There Is No Evil (2020), which won the Golden Bear at Berlin, is a four-part anthology about individuals involved in carrying out executions in Iran. Despite facing imprisonment and censorship, Rasoulof continues to push the boundaries of what Iranian cinema can say — and how it can say it.
Saeed Roustaee is another rising star. His breakout feature, Just 6.5 (2019), is a gripping crime thriller exploring the drug trade and the justice system, while Leila’s Brothers (2022) focuses on a working-class family’s struggle amidst economic crisis and patriarchal tradition. Roustaee combines social critique with mainstream genre techniques, bringing urgency and dynamism to Iranian storytelling.
Ali Asgari, known for short films and features such as Disappearance (2017) and Until Tomorrow (2022), focuses on marginalised people — especially women and youth — navigating Tehran’s rigid social codes. His minimalistic style and intimate focus carry echoes of Kiarostami but speak to newer, more precarious realities.
Despite systemic limitations, Iranian women filmmakers also continue to break ground in the 21st century. Rakhshan Bani-Etemad, known as the “First Lady of Iranian Cinema” and who came to Karachi for the KaraFilm Festival in 2004, continues to be a vital voice with films such as Tales (2014), which weaves interconnected stories of social injustice, bureaucracy, and resilience.
Younger directors such as Narges Abyar (Breath, 2016; When the Moon Was Full, 2019) and Mahnaz Mohammadi (Son-Mother, 2019) explore themes of war, motherhood and gender-based oppression. Their work not only challenges cultural norms but also expands the emotional and political dimensions of Iranian cinema.
Meanwhile, the Iranian diaspora — including directors such as Marjane Satrapi (Persepolis, 2007) and Ali Abbasi (Holy Spider, 2022) — contributes to a broader understanding of Iranian identity through a hybrid lens, blending inside and outside perspectives.
Twenty-first-century Iranian cinema stands as a testament to resilience, invention, and the unyielding spirit of its artists. In the face of censorship, travel bans and political repression, filmmakers have continued to produce some of the most urgent, beautiful and morally complex films of our time. While rooted in Iran’s social and political realities, these works transcend borders, asking universal questions about freedom, dignity, truth and justice.
Whether through Farhadi’s psychological realism, Panahi’s defiant minimalism, or Rasoulof’s moral parables, Iranian cinema remains a mirror to its society and a beacon for world cinema — quietly powerful, endlessly inventive, and deeply human.
The history of Iranian cinema after 1979 shows that art under constraint can develop remarkable ingenuity. Where Pakistan’s similar political climate in the 1980s stifled cinema into decline, Iran’s restrictions sparked a search for new forms. The result was a body of work that navigated censorship with allegory, symbolism, and humanism — films that, while born under surveillance, found ways to speak to the world.
The writer is a columnist, educator and film critic. He can be reached at Mnazir1964@yahoo.co.uk and X: NaazirMahmood